“It’s nothing, I swear.” She cries. “Please, just drop it.”

“I’m not going to just drop this, Q, you know that.” He says softly, reaching out. She flinches, and in that moment he knows exactly who put that on her face. He can barely see straight, he’s so suddenly angry. He’s seeing red, and he lowers his hand gently onto her shoulder, and he gently rubs her arm, and suddenly she’s breaking down more, and she’s burying her face in his chest and he’s wrapping his arms around her, rubbing her back.

“How long has he been doing this?” He asks softly, and she manages to say between her sobs, “Not very long.” He leans back a little, lifting her chin with two gentle fingers.

“Quinn.”

“Just a few weeks, he’s just been so angry lately, and he doesn’t mean to do it, I know he doesn’t,” he has to stop himself from growling, because he knows that won’t help the situation, but dammit he’s pissed. He pulls her back in for another hug, holding her close and wanting to protect her from everything and anything that would even think about hurting her like this.

“Why haven’t you told anyone?” He asks quietly, when she’s calmed down enough to speak clearly. She rests her cheek against his chest, waiting a few moments before replying.

“I didn’t exactly know how to tell anyone. I didn’t want it getting around, and it’s always been so easy to hide. He’s never hit me in the face before…”

“You can always tell me, Q.” He says gently, and she pulls back slightly, giving him a smile. It’s small, just corners of her lips barely lifting up, but it’s there, and it’s grateful. She glances at his sweater, and lets out a quiet, short laugh.

“I ruined your shirt with all my crying.” He glances down, and laughs softly, shaking his head and looking at her with a half-smile.

“I have plenty. Don’t worry about it.” She smiles again, this time a tiny bit wider, and wipes her eyes. “C’mon. Let’s get you out of here. We can go back to my house. My mom’s making corn dogs for dinner.” He remembers that she likes them, especially the way his mom makes them. And really, who can blame her? His mom is a really good cook. Her smile widens, and she nods.

“I’d like that.” She says quietly, and he smiles, putting his arm around her shoulders and leading her down the hallway. He knows he can’t save her forever, but damn him if he’s not going to try.

(picture by the wonderful molly)

(Source: albrightsally)

She knows it’s a silly game to be playing, and she hasn’t played it since she was about five, but there she is, murmuring he loves me, he loves me not, plucking the petals off of the flower as she tried to keep a certain curly haired college student out of her mind and attempting to think about the boy who she’s been fighting for. Finn, not Jesse. Finn, not Jesse. Finn, not Jesse. Jesse. Jesse, Jesse, Jesse. She sighs loudly, tossing the flower stalk to the ground with frustration. She knows that what she should do is forget Jesse, because he’s gone off to college and bigger and better things than Lima, Ohio, and Rachel can’t blame him for that. After all, it’s what she’s wanted since she could sing, right? She knows that she should forget him and focus on Finn, Finn who is there, who is dependable, who is slow, yes, but sweet and kind to her. Sure, he doesn’t challenge her like Jesse did, or understand her, and she finds his lack of extensive vocabulary more annoying than endearing, but he’s safe, right? And that’s what matters, right?

She sighs again, picking up another flower and glancing up at the sky. This time, the question is not whether or not he loves her, but who exactly ‘he’ is.

Jesse, Finn, Jesse, Finn…

(Source: albrightsally)

She’s surprised when he grabs her from behind, up into his arms, cradling her like a groom carrying his bride. She lets out a shrieking laugh, playfully hitting his shoulder.

“Jesse!” She says, giggling. He laughs softly, kissing her nose.

“Just smile for the camera, sweetie.” He murmurs. She turns her head, beaming at the photographer. They had agreed to do this photoshoot for some magazine that she couldn’t remember the name of right now, and at this point, the photographer was just letting them do whatever they felt like, to get some ‘natural’ shots. After getting a few shots of the carrying, Jesse lets her down gently, and she giggles, kissing his cheek. The photographer snaps a picture of that, and Jesse casts him a sly glance of the corner of his eye. The photographer replies with a small smile, and Rachel suddenly feels like she’s out of the loop. Before she can say anything, Jesse has slid down onto one knee and there’s a little black box in his hand. And before he can say anything, she has thrown her arms around his neck and is murmuring ‘yes’ over and over into the crook of his neck.

(Source: albrightsally)

“You should tell her.” Quinn says quietly, staring straight ahead and keeping her face as blank as possible. Santana is caught off guard, her head cocked towards Quinn.

“What?” She tears her eyes away from where Brittany and Artie are standing by his locker to look at Quinn. Things between them have been getting better since they had their fight. It was as if everything they had ever had against each other had been gotten out in those moments, and two nights later Quinn drove over to Santana’s house to apologize, and Santana had simply looked up from her freshly painted nails, stared at her, and given her a tiny, tiny smile before patting the space in front of her bed and handing her a nail file. To be honest, Santana had needed her best friend back. With Brittany spending most of her time with Wheels McDork, Santana had been kind of lonely. She’d never admit it out loud, but it was nice having Q back.

“You should tell her how you feel.” Santana’s eyes narrowed. Okay. This was one thing S hadn’t missed: Q’s creepily accurate reading of Santana.

“There’s nothing to tell.” Quinn finally looked over at Santana, arching one of her eyebrows and giving her that famous Quinn Fabray look.

“Of course there’s not.” She said skeptically, and Santana rolled her eyes, scoffing quietly.

“I’ll tell her once you tell him.” She shot back, glancing over at where Quinn had been staring. Quinn briefly glanced over where Artie and Brittany where standing, and she looked back at Santana.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She said quickly, and Santana smirked, thankful that she had been able to distract the blonde momentarily.

“Of course not.” Santana said. “C’mon, Q, we’ll be late for Glee.” She said, turning away from the couple near the lockers. Quinn bit her lip before turning around also, and they walked down the hall together, thoughts consumed by someone else.

(Source: albrightsally)

(picture from here)

A car pulled up in our driveway today. For a second, I let myself believe it was you. I thought maybe, if I closed my eyes and wished hard enough, you would step out of that car and we would run to each other like a cheesy movie, and within five minutes we would have covered the ten years we’ve lost. I know it was hopeless to think so. But sometimes…I risk that feeling of absolute misery for that split second of hope.

Do you like this new outfit? I bought it in honor of your birthday. I also got a haircut. Nothing major, just a trim. I wanted to look nice, in case you…came back.

I know it’s ridiculous for me to want that. I know that you can’t come back. I just want you to so bad sometimes, Mom. It kills me. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and in that moment before I fully wake up, I think that you are in the next room over, your hair spread across the pillow, close to Dad, smelling like lilies. And then I wake up. I can’t count how many mornings I’ve wanted to roll over and sob into my pillow. I know it’s been ten years. I know I should have gotten over it. But I can’t. Sometimes, I just want you back so much it pains me. In my chest.

I miss you. Carole’s nice. But she’s not you. No one will ever be you.

I want you to come back. I want you to sing to me like you used to.

I love you. With everything in me, Mom, I love you.

Goodbye. I’ll talk to you next year.

Who knows? Maybe it’ll be in person.